


Stuck On You

by stale_mnms



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-13 12:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20174206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stale_mnms/pseuds/stale_mnms
Summary: Dutch notices Arthur's stare lingering a bit too long.





	1. Caught

The Rhodes Parlour House was swarmed with people, as it always was. Arthur and Dutch sat at a table on the second floor, between the staircase and blackjack table. Below, they could hear the cries of bottle bottoms knocking against wood, lilting sales pitches of desperate women, and a cheery piano medley. Without moving picture shows, private tailors, or portrait-taking studios, Rhodes was like a town stuck in time. There were no cushy commodities of modern civilization, so people resorted to doing the only thing they could do: That was drinking until the ceiling spun. 

“Dunno about scamming both these families, Dutch,” Arthur said with caution. It was no secret that Dutch didn’t take criticism well. 

“Well, I _ know _ . I _ know _ that we are coming out of this with our pockets full and deputy badges still bright as ever. These half-witted yokels are standing on two lifetimes worth of gold, none of which they labored for themselves. ”

“I mean, by God, Arthur,” Dutch continued, his hands waving dismissively. “We’re given the opportunity to rob the people who deserve it the most, and you ‘dunno about’ it.”

Arthur sighed and threw down the rest of his whiskey. This was not was he had envisioned when Dutch invited him for a night out, just the two of them. He should have known better. 

He knew it was Molly that drove Dutch out of camp. The older man rarely left. He kept busy throwing orders and inspirational speeches in the faces of the gang. But more often than not, Arthur saw Dutch just sitting outside his tent, smoking and doing absolutely nothing else. To most, this gave an air of importance. He, their leader, was a visionary. He didn’t even need to leave the comfort of his cushy tent to contribute to their pack. But Arthur saw through it. He supposed Molly did too because behind Dutch, looking wistful and taking puffs from his pipe, were the shouts of a frustrated woman. 

If Dutch had hours dedicated to idling, then Molly must think she’s shit on the bottom of his shoe to not deserve a second of his attention. 

Dutch was just like that, though He spun enough yarn to pull folk in, but forgot ‘em by the time they started kneeling to kiss his feet. 

However, Arthur wasn’t that naive to think Dutch wanted him, not like Molly was. Dutch wanted what people could offer him, not the people themselves. 

So, yes, he was a bit surprised (flattered, not that he’d admit it) when Dutch called out for him to take a ride. He was aware of the man’s charms, but he certainly wasn’t immune to them. He mounted his horse to ride with Dutch faster than he ever had to go shoot folk for him. 

On the trek to town, Arthur had wondered, vaguely, why Dutch had invited him when Hosea was more witty, John more skilled, Micah more complimentary, Sean more enthusiastic, Javier more charming… Arthur didn’t have much but a mug ugly enough to send any rivals running. Yet, Dutch asked him. What could he possibly want him for? He supposed it was a sense of obligation. He took in a pathetic street kid and put his threw his back out while molding him into a functional adult. It’d be a shame to let that hard work go to waste, regardless of how useless Arthur was. 

They now sat in chairs opposite each other in the saloon. Dutch was waffling on about the Greys or the Braithwaites or about something Evelyn Miller wrote. He wasn’t quite paying attention. 

“Arthur.” 

Arthur blinked a couple of times, clearing the glaze over his eyes.

Dutch was squinting at him. A fat cigar was poking out of the corner of his mouth, and his lips were wet with moisture where it lay. 

“My boy,” he started. He exhaled, and a translucent film of smoke disfigured his face. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

Arthur continued to stare. He couldn’t help it. Yes, Dutch’s words were enthralling, but everything else about him was too. 

His hair sat just above his shoulders, dark as tar and curly as grape vines. An urge moved through him, like warm bile rising in his throat, to take a strand in his hand and pull. Hard. To feel the head that holds the skull that holds the enigmatic brain of Dutch van der Linde. He wanted, no-- _ needed-- _ that control over that man. To have Dutch at his mercy for once. Just for once. 

The impossible fantasy sent him crashing back to reality. 

Arthur scratched at his chin. He averted his eyes away, down towards his feet, then to window, then to the ceiling. Still, he saw Dutch’s image in his peripheral, felt his heavy gaze on him. 

Arthur felt the dull claws of his heart scraping up his throat as the older man leaned in towards him. 

He waited for the older man to say something, but nothing came. 

Dutch’s eyebrow quirked up, expectantly. Arthur tipped his hat down and tucked his chin in. 

“Sorry, I was just… lookin’ atchu,” Arthur said. He added on lamely, “You’re gettin’ old.”

The other man’s eyes shifted. A revelation. Arthur sat tense in his seat, anticipating a reprimandation. But then his eyes softened. Arthur could feel the tangible relief to have dodged a scolding. 

“Old?” Dutch huffed. He leaned back in the green upholstered chair. “My life has barely begun.”

Arthur coughed into his fist weakly. He looked down at his glass, solemnly remembering he had already finished his drink. God knows he’s gonna need another if he keeps spending all this time with Dutch. It’s goddamn exhausting. 

He rose from his chair, and stretched his sore limbs with a groan. He reached down to grab his empty glass. 

A strong hand shot out and grasped his wrist. The small liquor glass clattered back onto the table. 

“Sit, son,” Dutch said. “We ain’t done here.”

Even as he sat down again, the other man’s grip remained steady. 

“You know you can tell me anything, Arthur”

Arthur felt trapped, more from the attention of Dutch’s relentless gaze than from his captured wrist. 

“Uhuh...” Arthur said. He knew Dutch was fishing for something, but he wasn’t sure what for. 

Dutch continued to stare. Arthur’s wrist began to ache from the cold rings of Dutch’s fingers. 

And then, clear as day, Dutch stated, “You can tell me you’re a queer.”

Arthur paused. He blinked. Once. Twice.

“What the hell?” He asked. All other words escaped him. 

Arthur tried to whip his hand away from Dutch, but it remained caged. 

“I’m dunno what kind of game you’re playin’ here, Dutch, but I--”

Dutch squeezed his wrist impossibly harder.

“I didn’t raise you to lie to me, now did I?” The older man asked.

“Dutch…” Arthur mumbled. 

“Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you, Arthur,” Dutch hummed pleasantly.

Before he could lift his head, it was shoved up by Dutch’s other free hand. 

Dutch said nothing. Arthur didn’t either. Just sitting, looking at each other, Arthur being held into place by Dutch. He could feel the eyes of other patrons boring into them as they passed. He wanted to escape, but he knew he couldn’t bring himself to even if Dutch let go. 

“I’m going to ask the kind gentleman behind the bar about a room for the night, and I think that that you’ll join me,” Dutch mumbled low enough that his voice was nothing but gravel.

He released Arthur, gave him a soft pat on the cheek, and headed downstairs. 

Arthur buried his face in his hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i read a shit ton of fanfiction and have a nagging fear that i'll subconsciously steal another's author dialogue/plot/scene. here's crossing my fingers that this one checks out. anyway, thanks for reading! comments of any shape, size, and color are appreciated (as well as kudos, if you feel inclined!).


	2. Trapped

Arthur, ever deserving the title ‘Son of Dutch’, followed after him. Pulled downstairs by an invisible force, call it loyalty, foolishness, or lust. Maybe all three. There was no time to dwell on it. Not when he knew how quickly Dutch’s decisions and emotions could flip. Especially not when Dutch was relaxed on the edge of one saloon bed reserved for the both of them. 

Arthur lingered in the doorway, eyes peeled, his hand gripping the doorknob like the reins of a wild mustang. 

The younger man couldn’t help but feel like he was left in the dust. Not twenty minutes ago, Dutch was discussing plans of robbery, and now. Well, now, he was spreading his legs for Arthur. 

He took a deep breath. 

Shut the door behind him. 

As soon as the door clicked into place, the older man was on him. Dutch was kissing him like Arthur was a woman, with his chin held gently in one hand and the other hand wrapped firmly around his waist. Dutch’s lips were dry, but they moved with clear intent. 

It had the unavoidable effect of making him feel soft and pliant. He was drunk off the intense human warmth that he had been deprived of for so long. The warmth of Dutch’s hands, his  _ mouth _ as it wandered down his neck, the friction of the man’s facial hair scratching divergently against his own. 

Arthur understood why Dutch’s girls gave in so easily to his advances. In that moment, Arthur could have given him anything the man he asked for. 

The hand wrapped around his waist was now moving. Lower, it went, towards his backside.

He heard the lock snap. And then Dutch was grabbing his ass. That was enough to sober Arthur up.

With his two hands settled on Dutch’s chest, he pushed him back. Dutch complied. Although, the man’s hands remained in place, and he wouldn’t break his gaze pointed at Arthur’s lips.

“Wait, wait... “ Arthur took a heaving breath. It was a bit hard to concentrate with Dutch touching him like that. “What’re we doin’ here?”

“You are a grown man, and I’m fairly sure you’ve got at least half a brain behind that pretty face of yours,” Dutch chuckled softly at his own joke. His eyes lingered on Arthur’s mouth a moment longer, then darted up. “You know what we’re doing.”

“Hell, Dutch, I know  _ that _ . But this? With us? It ain’t right.”

“There ain’t  _ nothing _ wrong with chasing pleasure, my boy,” Dutch said impatiently.

“What about Molly?” Arthur pleaded, as a last resort. 

“Molly hasn’t got a penny on you.”

Arthur spared Dutch a final look. The man who saved him. Who raised him. Who stuck by him and all his flaws without a flickering consideration of abandonment.

He couldn’t have left the room if he wanted to. 

For Dutch, the man who gave him a second chance at life, all there was to do was stay and obey. He’d go to hell and back for the man, and this… this was pale in comparison. It was hardly a sacrifice for Arthur. 

He pushed all his doubts to the back of his mind, the best that he could, and murmured, “Alright, Dutch.”

Dutch dropped to his knees. Like a man of the cloth at the foot of the cross. 

Dutch pulled his belt loose and tugged his jeans down delicately. Arthur’s cock stretched the material of his union suit out to its limit as Dutch unbuttoned him. He was careful not to touch Arthur, especially where he needed it most. He placed a close-mouthed kiss on Arthur’s hipbone and bowed his head in submission. Dutch. At Arthur’s mercy. 

These comparisons became frivolous one second and evaporated in the next as the older man pulled back slowly, rubbing the short stubble of his cheek against Arthur’s cock. 

Arthur inhaled sharply and grasped blindly for Dutch’s shoulder, anything to hold onto, to ground him. 

He didn’t need to look down to know that Dutch’s expression would be unabashedly complacent. Arthur looked down anyway, and shit, was he grateful he did. 

Dutch looked up at him, his black eyes dark and full of something he could not name. 

Arthur couldn’t take his eyes off him-- he could barely breathe-- as the older man took the head of his cock into his mouth. It was warm and wet in a beautiful way, one that couldn’t quite be replicated by a pussy. 

Dutch laid his tongue flat across the slit and  _ licked _ . Arthur was gone. 

He squeezed harder on Dutch’s shoulder. It was the only thing keeping him from shoving all of himself down Dutch’s throat. He shuddered at the thought of what Dutch would do to him if that happened. A part of him wanted to find out.

The older man popped his mouth off. Arthur let out a pathetic noise he wouldn’t care to make again. 

“Easy now, boy,” Dutch hummed, like he was trying to calm down The Count.

He pried Arthur’s fingers off his shoulders and gently placed his hand back by the younger man’s side. 

Dutch took Arthur back into his mouth once again, this time faster. Further. 

Arthur could feel himself reaching for Dutch again, but he resisted, digging his fingers into his palm. 

Dutch moved his head down and back, over and over. He felt the head of his cock nudge the opening of Dutch’s throat.

Arthur sighed through his closed mouth. 

He watched as spit and precum began to gather around Dutch’s spread lips. A heavy drop dripped down to the man’s lower lip, as his cock breached the tight heat of Dutch’s throat once again. A surge of warmth spiked through Arthur’s flesh like a dagger, and he could feel himself drawing close. 

Through the obstruction of Dutch’s head sliding across his length, Arthur caught view of Dutch’s hand moving quickly in his trousers. He closed his eyes and banged his head back against the door. 

A hand came to his inner thigh and pinched. As Arthur averted his attention back to Dutch, the sharp twinge of his fingers turned into a delicate rub. 

Dutch took Arthur in as deep as he could and rubbed his tongue around his cock. He kneaded at his thighs harder. 

Arthur helplessly took a fistful of Dutch’s hair, squeezed his eyes shut, and came down Dutch’s throat with a groan.

The world was silent, save for the ringing in his ears and his own heavy breathing. Dutch’s curls fell from Arthur’s now limp hand.

He fell down violently from the height of his orgasm to the sounds of Dutch spitting into his hand, coughing. Then a wet slapping of skin. A hand grasping his ankle. A muffled moan. 

Arthur didn’t open his eyes, not yet. 

He heard the clinging of metal. The rustling of fabric. The bleat of a man too old to be kneeling on wood floors stand up. 

Dutch guided him to the bed. Arthur, limbless, felt nothing but fizzling satiation and the cool fabric of a quilt against his cheek. The older man gave him a fraternal pat on the shoulder and murmured, 

“You did great, Art. You did just great.”

Dutch backed up, and Arthur listened to the hard leather of the man’s shoes clomp across the room.

“Oh, and son-- if you ever have this sort of need again, you come to me. I’m sure you offer me the very same, as well.” 

The lock snapped once again, the door creaked open, and Dutch was gone. 

Arthur stayed there, lying still. Only when all of his tears had fallen and dried did he open his eyes. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG SHOUTOUT TO MY AMAZING BETA!! i love her to death, and my writing would literally be incoherent without her. once again, i love comments of any shape, color, and size (also kudos if you feel inclined)!!


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